


Hold Me Tight (Or Don't)

by MountainDont



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Corruption, Corruption Kink, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fucked Up, Gun Kink, Knife Kink, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Rick Sanchez, Sadism, Stalking, Tags May Change, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainDont/pseuds/MountainDont
Summary: You're an aspiring author that just moved to Rick's neck of the woods. You spent your entire life putting up a shy, demure facade to hide your depravity, only to find that it doesn't work on your eccentric neighbor. If anything, he sees it as a challenge to bring out your inner demons -- some of which have been denied so long, that you weren't even aware they existed.A fic in which you and Rick are both equal parts fucked up and obsessed with each other. Summary and tags will be updated periodically to reflect advancements in the fic.





	1. Rewriting the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first RickxReader fic, and I'm kind of nervous, because I mean, this is going to get fuuuuuuuucked. But hey, if you were looking for healthy characters capable of working through their shit without joking about their depression and dead dads, you wouldn't be here.

A knock on the door interrupted you from your work. Work being a relatively loose word you’d barely use to describe what you’ve been doing for the past two hours. Between staring at a blank word document and watching macabre YouTube videos about how embalming fluid words, you haven’t been able to accomplish a damn thing. Still, the interruption wasn’t a welcome one. Mostly because you’d just arrived earlier that day, had yet to unpack, and weren’t expecting any guests. “Yeah, one sec,” you said, setting aside the laptop and standing up from the couch. A quick stroll to the door, and you opened it up.

A pretty blonde woman and a brunet man trying too hard to look charming stood before you. She wore a sheepish smile. His was shit-eating and obnoxious. You tried not to judge too harshly and waited patiently for them to say something.

“Hi there, neighbor!” said the man. “I’m Jerry Smith, head of the Smith household.” The blonde woman’s smile faded, and her side eye game was on point. You were reminded of the first time you spent the night at your friend’s house and overheard her parents in a hushed argument. It was uncomfortable then, and it was still uncomfortable now. “This is my wife, Beth. She’s a _horse surgeon_.” He enunciated the last two words like it was something condescendingly magical.

You could tell that it irritated Beth, and you couldn’t blame her. While her husband seemed nice enough, it seemed as if he didn’t really understand social boundaries. Neither did you, but at least you knew not to make others feel bad just to boost your own self-esteem. You weren’t sure if Jerry was aware that he was even doing it, though, so you didn’t point it out. “A horse surgeon?” you asked, playing up the impression it left on you. Beth’s smile returned, thankful. “That’s amazing. Veterinary school is very difficult to get into.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s hard work.”

“I’ll bet. I love horses. I’m glad someone is looking out for them.” These looked like nice people, if a bit conventionally White Suburbia. Quickly, you introduced yourself, first and last name to be polite. Jerry extended a hand for you to shake, and you took it reluctantly. “What can I do for you?” you asked.

“Jerry and I saw the moving van earlier today, and decided we should invite you over for dinner,” Beth said, and Jerry beamed like it was his idea. “We’re not really the neighborly type, but we figured this time, it couldn’t hurt.” She bounced forward on the balls of her feet. “It’s lasagna.”

“Lasagna sounds great,” you said. “I mean, meeting some neighbors sounds …” Overwhelming. “Great.” 

After they told you the time and point to the house across the street, you agreed to show up at seven and close the door as they turn to leave. Before you head back to “work,” you overheard a hushed conversation as the couple walked back down your driveway. “… could be a disaster, Beth. She seems like such a nice girl. Rick’s going to ruin it.”

“Jerry, I swear to God if you insult my father one more time, our next divorce will be final.”

* * *

Dinner at the Smith house seemed relatively normal, if only because the familial dysfunction made you feel relatively at home. You sat at the head of the table, across from Jerry, who seemed intent on asking you all sorts of questions about your life. Maybe it was the intensity of your social anxiety, or maybe it was the way the older man with a shock of blue-gray hair scoffed as he stared down at his food whenever you answered a question– but you felt impossibly hot right now. You found yourself wishing that you’d opted for a different outfit, not the long-sleeved black dress that clung to your form. At least if you sweat through it, no one would see it.

Jerry’s questions ranged from where you’d moved from to what your family had been like. You answered what you felt comfortable with, beat around what you didn’t. Thankfully, even when Jerry couldn’t seem to take a hint, Beth could – and she changed the subject whenever it seemed as if you were uncomfortable. When the topic shifted to your career, you felt your body grow even hotter.

The older man at the table – Rick, you’d learned his name was – glanced up at you, eyes drifting over your face like he was sizing you up, what you were capable of. While his expression was unreadable, you got the distinct impression that he didn’t think much of you. Still, Beth smiled encouragingly, so you answered: “I write. I’m, uh. I’m a writer.”

“Oh?” Beth set her silverware down on her plate. “What kinds of things do you write?”

“I – well, I’d – I’d write horror stories for a website. I had a pretty big fanbase, and then talk started for me to write my own book.” Rick scoffed again – a reaction you were starting to get used to. That didn’t make it any less offensive. “Every publisher I got into contact with wanted me to write a collection of short stories, though, and I really wanted to switch up the game a bit, so I’m probably going to go the self-publishing route and write a novel.” You didn’t mention that you had no clue what your novel would be about. You hoped that your inclusion of your past with horror would make them think you would stick to it, but truth be told, horror has been tried before. It was a tired subject for you, and while it always held a special place in your heart, there was very little that you could do with it right now. You’d exhausted every creative resource you had with the genre and wanted something new. Something exciting. Not just something you haven’t done before, but something the world has never seen.

You doubted it’d be horror. Which meant you had to leave your options open. Which meant constant writer’s block.

While Rick certainly seemed like he thought you were stupid, at least the younger Smith child took a liking to your occupation. He was named Morty, and while he didn’t talk much while you were there, he’d spoken enough for you to notice the nervous stutter he’d developed, like his brain couldn’t catch up with his mouth. He fidgeted a lot, stared at you an uncomfortable amount, and blushed whenever you caught him. It wouldn’t be the first time a hormonal teenage boy was attracted to you. It didn’t make you any less creeped out by it, though. Thankfully, that was one of the few things that did creep you out.

That and the constant existential dread of your eventual death. But hey, wasn’t everyone scared of that?

“I th-think I’ve read …” Morty’s voice trailed off, and his ears burned a bright red. Rick’s disapproving stare fell on his grandson, and he chewed slowly, fork hanging limply in his hand. “The uh, the one about the uh … I th-think it was the one a-about depression being a m-monster.” You glanced nervously around the table. Was this appropriate dinner conversation? “S-sorry,” Morty said, misinterpreting your hesitation.

“No, it’s okay. I … I wasn’t aware I had a fan,” you said, smiling.

“Wait,” said Morty’s older sister, Summer. She set her phone down on the table and leaned forward on her elbows, like she was going to interrogate you. “That was you?” You nodded. She grinned. “Wait until my friends hear about this.”

Suddenly, Rick dropped his silverware on his plate, causing a loud clank to echo in the dining room. He waved his hands animatedly, eyes wide with – what? Rage? Disbelief? Even though he wore obvious emotion on his face, he was still so impossibly unreadable. You found yourself shrinking in your seat. “Wh-What, so seeing – going to different worlds isn’t – exploring the fucking multiverse isn’t –” He swatted Summer’s phone out of her hand irritably when he saw her texting again. She stared incredulously at him as he pointed an accusing finger at her. Despite this, though, he said nothing. They just glared each other down.

Beth was the one to break the silence by clearing her throat. “Um, Dad, I’m sure you don’t want Summer telling all her friends about your … hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” Rick stood from the table so fast that he knocked his chair over. “I’m a fuck –” he paused to belch, loudly – and in the process of his belch, he tried to speak, but it came out slurred and distorted – “fu **uuaaaoooo** cking god. The multiv – it’s a goddamn lifestyle, Beth! You – you don’t – anyone can write a fucking book. I’m rewriting the universe, bitches!” He faltered, as if trying to think of something else to say – then settled on lifting both middle fingers, twisting his body so that the vulgar gesture went on display for everyone at the table. “Take that – take that to bed and cuddle with it at night. Rick fucking Sanchez out.” He picked up his fork – dropped it like it was a microphone – and left the kitchen behind a door that you assumed led to the garage, if the layout of your own home was any indication.

An uncomfortable silence fell across the dinner table. It seemed as if everyone had lost their appetite. You, on the other hand, couldn’t figure out if you were embarrassed that you’d prompted an argument amongst an otherwise kind family, or intrigued by how someone so old could defy generational gaps and take on the aggressive swagger of someone fifty years his junior. Beth cleared her throat again, apologized quietly, and moved to clean up the table while everyone else sat in silence – you stunned, everyone else disappointed.

* * *

You helped Beth clean up, spoke a bit more with Jerry about the future of your career, and even promised him that you’d take him on as an advertiser if you ever needed it. You had no idea if you actually meant to keep that promise, but he seemed satisfied with it and walked with a pep in his step for the remainder of your visit. When it came time for you to leave, Beth walked you to the door, apologized again for her father’s behavior, and assured you that it wasn’t your fault. You accepted the apology, told her it wasn’t her fault either – but something told you that neither of you would go to bed that night feeling entirely guiltless. Once she closed the door, you stood in the cold night air, welcoming the cool breeze on your still-hot skin.

Something whirring from the garage caught your attention. Cautiously, you crossed the driveway and peered into the open garage door.

Rick stood at an L-shaped workbench, arms folded across his chest as he watched a mass of metal move across the desktop with fluidity. It stopped in front of him, whirred loudly again, before its front opened up. Something paper-white and about three inches long extended from its open core, and Rick accepted it, held it between his lips as he leaned down toward a flame that the robot produced. He inhaled, exhaled – and the stench was almost immediate.

Part of you felt as if maybe you shouldn’t have seen this, but before you could turn and pretend that you hadn’t, Rick’s gaze met yours. Despite his previous aggression, his expression was back to that neutral, unimpressed state. He took another long drag of his joint, exhaled deeply and approached you. Leaned against the open frame of the garage and extended the joint to you. You stared at it for a moment. “I don’t smoke,” you said, feeling another twinge of shame at your admission.

He snorted. “Each their own,” he said.

“It just fucks with my head.” You had no idea why you felt the need to justify this to him, but you realized tonight that you didn’t want someone like Rick to think lesser of you. You also realized that you had no say in that matter. People like Rick just treated others with disdain because … Well, you didn’t know why yet.

He just quirked one side of his unibrow at you. “That’s kind of the point.”

“No, I mean, I tend to dissociate.” He shrugged one shoulder. He wasn’t interested, and it was clear. The overwhelming feeling that you’d said something wrong overtook you, but you tried to push through it. “Listen, I’m sorry about tonight.” He stared at you, still impossible to read. Nothing about him shifted. He took another hit, no response. Your eyes drifted away from the foul-smelling smoke and fell on the robot that now rest stagnant on his desk. You jerk your chin up in its direction. “You make that?” you asked.

Now that the conversation shifted towards him, Rick seemed okay with talking to you. “That’s a stupid – dumb fucking question,” he said, punctuating his insult with a belch. He rolled his eyes so hard you felt like his pupils might disappear behind his skull. If only you could be so lucky; his gaze burned right through you, like he could figure everything out.

“What’s it do?” you asked, partially out of curiosity and partially because you had no idea how to keep the conversation going.

“I-it grinds weed, rolls up – rolls joints and packs bowls,” Rick said. “Wanna guess – take a guess at what it doesn’t do?” You returned your gaze back at him, inquisitive. He paused dramatically, stretching out your curiosity until you waited with bated breath, lips parted. You shivered in the night wind. His lips turned up into a satisfied smirk. “It doesn’t stand around in an – in awkward situations hoping to turn shit around because its self-destructive curiosity rears its ugly fu **oooaauugh** cking head whenever it sees something even remotely new in its otherwise mundane life.” It took you a moment, but you realized that Rick was talking about you. You felt another wave of shame wash over you. You hadn’t realized that was what you were doing, but it was true. He was right in that you were so used to the ins and outs of your everyday life that something about him intrigued you. He so casually leaned against the garage frame like he was used to this sort of attention, and how couldn’t he be? If someone like Rick Sanchez walked somewhere, dressed in his lab coat and rambling about the (what had he called it?) the multiverse, he was bound to gather some attention – both fascinated and repulsed. “Might be because it isn’t – it’s not technically alive, but fuck semantics.”

He stared at you, expectant, with his joint hanging limply between his lips. You took a step back. “I’m sorry,” you said. “Um, good night.” His smirk turned into a toothy grin as he watched you leave. As you walked to your house across the street, closed the door behind you, you could have sworn that you heard his laughter carried on the wind.


	2. Greed and Desire

It had been two weeks since dinner at the Smiths’, and you haven’t spoken to any of them since. Not because they scared you, but because Rick made you feel unwelcome. And while Beth and Jerry waved at you politely, almost _encouragingly_ , every time they saw you, you got the strange feeling that neither of them were in charge of running the household. Whether or not they wanted you around didn’t matter. Every family had an instigator, and you knew how they operated. People like Rick, they would tear lives apart if it meant that they could get their own way. Hell, you’d made your own enemies in your own family because you’d distanced yourself from relatives like that. You didn’t want to put that pressure on them.

Even so, you’ve been keeping your living room blinds open for the past thirteen days – because Rick’s Weed Robot only scratched the surface of what he was capable of. The first time you saw him disappear behind that green, glowing, swirling mass, you’d almost lost your mind. Questioned reality for days after, and only recently came to terms with the fact that he was just so much more than anyone else you’d ever met. Even though you haven’t spoken to him for two weeks, you’d pinned Rick as a collaborative effort between Picasso and Dali, a strange puzzle that distorted reality and yet didn’t need reality’s validation to exist.

That was the first charming quality about him. The second was that he seemed to not give a fuck if you watched him work.

He didn’t close the garage when he was about to portal out of reality. He didn’t put up barriers so that you couldn’t watch him build a new device – most of which tickled him pink, likely because the purposes of his creations often included inside jokes he had with himself. Rick liked laughing to himself, just as much as he liked throwing temper tantrums when things didn’t go his way. Just as much as he liked dragging his grandson (and sometimes his granddaughter) through that portal, only for them to return mentally scarred and disheveled or laughing so hard that they had to hold at the stitches in their sides.

Rick paid you no mind when you watched him. Sometimes, he’d catch you staring, then just go back to his work, like you were no pressure to perform at all. And you liked that. Had moved one of your chairs by the window to stare out at him, elbow against the windowsill and chin propped up in the palm of your hand. Anyone else would have called you dreamy-eyed, ridiculous.

You would have called yourself inspired.

Ever since you started watching Rick, you began forming plots in your head, giving characters traits and redefining them until they made you laugh or weep just at the idea of what their lives would be like. It was the first flash of inspiration you’d gotten in a long time, and you felt a heat radiate in your belly at the thought of what kind of story you could write from it.

But currently, you had a different dilemma, and writing was the least of your concerns. Yes, you needed to pay your bills, but you still had several more articles and short stories that you could publish to buy you some more time, so you could focus on your new problem: The worry in the pit of your stomach at the garage across the street having remained closed for three days straight.

Different reasons came flooding your mind. Maybe Rick had gotten sick of you watching, thought you were snooping a little too obsessively from your spot by your window, and he wanted to cut you off from the show. The idea terrified you. In the two weeks that you’ve started observing him, it almost became an addiction. You couldn’t accurately define the frantic panic that filled you when you thought of the possibility of never seen Rick Sanchez work again – which in and of itself was a bit of a stretch, considering you’d only lived there for two weeks. You’ve only spoken to him once. He’s only been absent from your life otherwise for three days.

But the unhealthy nature of your obsession never struck you. Instead, you focused on trying to understand why it felt like you’d just been so horribly rejected, and what you had done that would result in you would being rejected in the first place. He’d seemed fine with you watching, so why the sudden change?

Then an even more horrible thought crossed your mind: What if he disappeared behind that portal and hadn’t returned because he couldn’t? Because he’d died? It made you feel sick to your stomach, and even worse, it made you feel a small amount of relief that if he’d encountered some horrible fate, at least it wasn’t _rejection_.

So, even though you haven’t spoken to any of the Smith family in two weeks, you stood at their front door, waiting after knocking. Summer opened the door, lifted an eyebrow at you. “Yeah?” she asked. You glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see Rick somewhere in the background. He wasn’t there.

“I, uh …” You licked your lips. You what? Have been watching her grandfather for two weeks straight and got scared now that you haven’t seen him in three days? Yeah, good luck explaining that one. “I was hoping I could speak to Rick.” Summer rolled her eyes, folded her arms across her chest. You were acutely aware of how like her grandfather she was. Easily annoyed, offended by everything, and dryly sarcastic.

“Yeah, of course you do. He’s not here.”

“Oh.” You hoped you sounded disappointed, a little surprised. If her expression was any indication, she didn’t buy it. It was like she knew – like maybe they were talking about your strange obsession with Rick behind your back. You tried to shove that paranoia into the back of your mind, shifting uncomfortably on the doorstep. “I, uh – Do you know when he’s going to be back? It’s – it’s for my new novel.” Both of Summer’s eyebrows arched up high onto her forehead. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“You want my grandfather’s help with your book? You know he doesn’t have a good opinion on fiction, right?” You kept your mouth shut, didn’t know what to say to that. Summer groaned in frustration, rolled her eyes again, and stepped to the side to let you in. You hesitantly accepted the invitation. Summer shut the door behind you. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re going to get out of it, but you might as well not have any expectations with Grandpa Rick. He thinks fiction is bogus because it’s all real somewhere.” With that, she plopped back down onto the couch. You followed her, sat down in a chair.

“He has that, um …” You waved your hand, trying to find the right world. Summer glanced up from her phone, waiting with ill-disguised impatience for you to finish your thought. “The green thing.”

“You mean the portal?” Summer asked monotonously. You nodded. “Yeah. Different dimensions. The multiverse. He wasn’t just talking out of his ass when he brought that up.” She rested with her back against the seat of the sofa, her head propped up on the armrest. One leg crossed over the other, and she typed away enthusiastically on her phone. “Everyone around here is used to it. He’s always portalling Morty out of school to take him out on adventures. Doesn’t really care who sees. It’s like a reality everyone around here is just born into, so no one questions it. Guess it’s different for people who see it for the first time.” You licked your lips.

“Yeah, I mean, it was weird at first.” She hummed, but didn’t say anything. You tried a new tactic: “Is that where he is, then? A different dimension?”

Suddenly, Summer sat up, set her phone to the side and crossed her legs as she sat sideways on the couch to scrutinize you. “You know,” she began, “for someone who just came into this, you’re taking it really well.”

Your mouth gaped as you fought to find a reason for your total acceptance of Rick and his eccentricities. Finally, you settled on, “I’m a writer. The strange and outlandish is kind of my thing, you know? If you read half the shit I wrote, you’d probably think I was the crazy one.” She hummed again, one eyebrow lifting briefly as she considered and accepted your response. “I’ve woken up believing stranger dreams, so … Even if this is new, it’s not. If that makes any sense.”

“I guess.” She looked you up and down, and you could tell from her expression that she was thinking pretty hard about something. She finally spoke up: “Yeah, he and Morty ran off to another dimension. There’s an event going on that they wanted to go see, so it’s taking longer than it usually does. They should be back soon.”

“Soon?”

Summer rolled her eyes again. “What am I, their keeper? Like, a few hours maybe? I don’t know. Jesus Christ.” She plopped back down, and picked up her phone. “You can like, stay, or whatever. I really don’t care. Just stay out of my room.” You almost told her that you had no reason to go into her room, but then you figured it might be best not to argue with a teenage girl’s logic. She waved a hand dismissively at the television. “Help yourself to some interdimensional cable if you want.” Deciding you had nothing better to do, you quietly thanked Summer – she grunted in response – and picked up the remote to watch whatever channel the cable box was already set on.

About two and a half hours into a marathon of a show called Ball Fondlers, a green light filled the room. Summer, uninterested in looking up from her phone, said, “You got a visitor, Grandpa.” You turned in the direction of the portal as it closed behind Rick and Morty.

“Not really a – this is a ba **aaaugh** d time, Summer,” Rick said, belching loudly. “We gotta – we gotta – I gotta go.” Finally, Summer set the phone down, eyes narrowing at Rick’s gaze flickered wildly about the room. Morty, who seemed more exhausted than anything else, sat down on the couch next to his sister and watched television with you.

“He’s g-going on a b-bad trip,” he said. “I-I-I told you not to take any drugs, R-Rick.”

Rick pulled at his hair with one hand, the other outstretched, palm up, in a display of disbelief as he gaped at Morty. “Th-the fuc – **uurrrgh** – the fucking f-faceless s-shits are coming, Morty!” His eyes went to you, and he grabbed you by the shoulders, shaking you in a frenzy. Your heart raced, and you tried to push him away, but his grip was too strong. You weren’t sure what he was talking about, but he was scaring you. “Th-that’s not a figure of sp – that’s not a eu-euphamism! There are literal shits with no faces out there, a-a-and they – _fffuuuuuuuucccckkkk_.”

“They fuck?” you squeaked out, eyes wide. He nodded enthusiastically at you, lips parted. Morty glanced at you from the corner of his eyes, sighed again, and shook his head.

“I-I wouldn’t en-encourage him,” he said.

“I’m not,” you said, turning your head to stare at Morty. Your voice was a higher octave than you would have liked, and Rick sniffed like he smelled the fear radiating off you. “I just don’t understand. What – what happened?” You turned back to the scientist, saw that he was scowling at you.

“Faceless. Shits.” Like that explained everything.

“Have you tried flushing them?” you asked, suggestion coming out in one breath, rushed, just trying to offer any solution to his problem so that he would stop bruising your shoulders with his grip. He glared down at you, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in disgust and anger.

“No,” he finally admitted. He looked like a wild animal, cornered and frightened with dilated pupils and shaking hands – but all that fear just translated into manic rage. You moved your hand from his chest and rested it on his shoulder, trying to be as comforting as possible. His grip on your shoulders tightened, and your fingers twitched.

“Maybe, and this is just a thought, we just flush the – the faceless shits?” you offered.

“That’s the dumb – that’s such a stupid fucking idea – fuck you.” Rick pushed himself away from you, the force of it sending your back against the armrest of the chair as he stalked away. “Fucking flushing the faceless shits. U-Useless bitch.” He belched.

And collapsed on the floor.

You gasped, lunged forward to peer over the chair at him. “Just l-leave him,” Morty said. You looked at him over his shoulder, found that neither he nor Summer seemed particularly concerned. But at least Summer stood up and made her way over to her grandfather. “J-Just leave him, Summer,” Morty repeated, clearly agitated. “H-He made his bed –”

“Oh my God, Morty, he’s seventy years old. I’m not going to let him sleep on the floor so he can wake up to like, a broken hip or something.” Summer solicited your help, and the two of you somehow managed to hoist Rick up (he was much heavier than he looked, and you figured it was because of his height) and sprawled him out on the couch. Morty, who at first refused to move, screamed in frustration once Summer spread Rick’s legs out over her brother’s lap. He shoved them off, stood up, and stormed up the stairs. As Summer placed Rick’s legs back on the couch, you heard a door slamming.

And while Summer didn’t let it show, you could tell that something was wrong when she sat down in the chair opposite of the one you’d claimed earlier. She stared at her phone, but didn’t do anything with it, even when the display went dark. You cleared your throat. “I’m sure the faceless shits would hate you for taking care of their arch nemesis,” you offered. Her eyes flickered up to you, and at first she glared – like Rick’s condition shouldn’t be a joke – but then her expression softened.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” she said, looking sidelong at her grandfather, who now snored loudly as he slept on his back, one arm draped casually across his chest as the other dangled off the couch. “Morty’s jaded, you know? He spends so much time with Grandpa Rick that he only sees the bad things, even when the good stuff happens.”

“Sometimes they look like they’re having fun,” you offered. Summer scoffed.

“So it’s true,” she said, and you blanched. “You’re stalking my grandfather.”

“His garage faces my window and it’s not like he hides anything,” you counter. “I wouldn’t consider that stalking.” Summer shrugged.

“Whatever. But yeah. Sometimes they have fun, but like, Morty forgets about that. Thinks that Grandpa Rick’s some kind of like, villain or something.”

“I think he’s cool.”

“Yeah,” Summer agreed. “Me too.” She glanced at the clock on the cable box and groaned in frustration, sinking back in her seat. “Mom and Dad left on their – what – third honeymoon? Trying to keep the spark going, I guess.” She made a face like the idea was disgusting. You looked at the clock, too. It was nearing six in the evening. “So that means I have to make dinner before Rick does,” she added, confirming your suspicions.

“I can do it,” you said. Summer looked up at you. “I’m not the best cook, but I can follow a recipe.”

“Thank God,” Summer sighed. “If I have to eat one more serving of Rick Surprise, I’m going to projectile vomit.”

* * *

Rick was still fast asleep by the time dinner had been made, so you left the uneaten food in the oven to keep it warm for him. Morty had told you at the dinner table that Beth had left enough food to last them for the week that she and Jerry would be gone, but Rick had eaten all of it in practically one day after waking up from an alcohol-induced coma. The despair on his face had been so heart-wrenching that you couldn’t help yourself; you made offer after offer. It went from “Maybe I could cook for you guys” to “I guess I have enough time to clean up a bit every now and again,” and next thing you knew, you had volunteered to stay over and make sure the household didn’t fall into complete chaos while Jerry and Beth were absent.

According to Summer and Morty, it was a habit of Rick’s to engage in destructive tendencies whenever his daughter and son-in-law were absent. And since you didn’t have a conventional nine-to-five and lived alone, you figured you could spare the remaining five days of Beth’s and Jerry’s vacation staying at their house to make sure everything ran smoothly. You left their house at around eight to pack a few things up – your laptop, some clothes, and toiletries – and returned half an hour later to find that Summer and Morty had retreated to their respective rooms and Rick was wide awake.

He sat at the couch, tearing foil off the plate you’d saved for him, and side-eyed you as you entered the room with your bags. You set your things down on the kitchen table. As he flipped through the channels, you sat down in the same chair you’d sat at before to watch him.

As usual, Rick gave no indication that he was bothered by your staring – just ate like a starving man and drank from a beer like he hadn’t had the chance in years. When he was finished, he belched – loudly – and held out his plate. Wordlessly, you accepted it, took it into the kitchen, and washed it. “Fuck,” you heard Rick grunt, and you came back to him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nuts itch,” he responded, scratching at his crotch. You fought against rolling your eyes. “Shouldn’t’ve shaved ‘em.”

You sat back down in your chair. “Yeah, pubic hair tends to itch when it grows back.”

He lifted his rear off the couch and reached a hand down his pants. You averted your gaze politely as he engaged in a more hands-on approach of curing himself of Itchy Ball Syndrome. With a satisfied sigh, Rick sat back down and extended his hand toward you. “Smell my finger.”

“That’s disgusting,” you said, but you couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of his demand.

He shrugged, settled his hand back in his lap. “Y-your lo **ooough** ss.”

“I think I’ll survive.” And you were watching him again, chest swelling with fascination. Every character idea you’d created was rewriting itself in your head. You wanted to frame someone after Rick – he seemed like the most readily available inspiration, considering how interesting he was – but it was hard to pin down who he was – his motivations, his ambitions, his morals. You must have been staring harder than you thought, because he looked back at you, eyes narrowed in irritation, but the corners of his lips turned up in poorly-hidden amusement. “What?” you asked, flushing – like you didn’t know. He just kept looking at you, returning your stare with his own, an intensity that you’d never seen before. Like he could devour every essence of your existence, from your thoughts to your body.

It sent shivers down your limbs and, by contrast, heated your entire body.

“Sorry,” you said.

“Y-you know who apologizes?” he asked. “ _Pussies_.” He elongated the word. “Pussies say sorry. You a – are you a pussy?”

“N – I … Maybe?” You had no idea what the appropriate response here was. You had no idea how to get Rick to respond to you the way you wanted. Normally, people took pity on how uncomfortable you were in social situations, but not Rick. He just kept grinning at you like he’d found his new source of entertainment.

“Say it,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Th-that you’re a giant pussy.”

“I – no. That’s – why would I say that?”

“Uh.” Rick belched. “Because I told you to. F-fuckin’ _d u h_.”

You decided to change the subject. “Did Summer tell you why I came by?” He snorted, said nothing as he turned back to the TV. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m – I’m working on that novel.”

Rick’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and his head fell back against the couch. “Oh, y-yeah, your _crowning_ literary achievement. Gonna change the world with that one, huh?” He belched again.

“Summer said you hate fiction.”

“No such thing.”

“She said you thought that, too.” You waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just stared up blankly at the ceiling, bored and waiting for this conversation to end so that he could get back to watching TV. “I know it’s a longshot, but I wanted to ask – if you’d show me.” His eyes moved toward you, fingers tapping against his lap. The silence started to cut through you, so you continued: “I understand if you don’t want to. It’s probably really personal, but –”

“Personal?” Rick sat up straight now. He had that same manic gleam in his eye that you saw when he came back with Morty earlier. That you’d seen at the dinner table two weeks ago. You realized that you might have just opened up a can of worms that refused to be closed again, and you instinctively shrunk back in your seat under the intensity of his glare. “Y-you think a-anything in th – you think the universe is small enough for _anything_ to be persona **aaaaar** l?” Saliva escaped his mouth as he belched, dribbled down his chin – bright green and glimmering in the light of the television – but he ignored it, instead twisting in his seat to face you fully. “Y-you’re a speck – a blip so tiny that you might as well not exist at all. This doesn’t – you think this matters? Any of this?” By the time Rick had finished crawling toward you on the couch, he was leaning so far over the edge of the armrest that you could smell the alcohol on his breath. He supported his weight with one hand on the armrest as the other reached out to grab you by the collar of your shirt. He yanked you closer. “If-If I decide to do something, it’s because I want to, because baby, that’s all we are. Meatsacks floating in a void, driven by gre – by greed and desire.”

This monologue struck you as oddly seductive, despite the way he presented it. He reeked of alcohol, the drool still stained his chin, and he didn’t seem in the least bit flirtatious in his tone or mannerisms – but you couldn’t deny the romance of the universe’s mysteries. And when he spelled it out for you, made it so plainly obvious that you didn’t matter, you found yourself seduced regardless of his intentions. Maybe it was because you so desperately needed the confirmation that in the end, you’d die when everything else did. Or maybe it was because of the man who confirmed it.

Rick stared into you, in that way he always did whenever he looked at you, then released your shirt. You stayed put, close and holding your breath. His lips twitched again. “Y-you got no idea.” Your eyelashes fluttered, and your lips pursed. You wanted to ask what he meant, but proximity stripped all words from you. “Y-you’re so used to – you’re so used to yourself that you got no idea how _fucked_ you are.” You drew in a sharp breath. He licked his lips. “Oh, yeah. Watc – You sit around watching your old-ass neighbor bec – because you got – you got this _obsession_ with shit beyond your – that you can’t comprehend.

“Oh baby,” he continued, “you front like a boss, but I – I can see right through that shit. You don’t even know h-how bad – how bad you want it. How much you want me in that head of yours, twisting shit like – like _goddamn, baby._ Because – because like attracts like, right? You saw me, you saw – you saw – baby, you saw a fucking god, and now …” His eyes slid shut, and that grin faded from his face. He concentrated on something, and you saw a telltale twitch in his jaw. Discomfort.

Quietly, Rick moved away from you and swayed as he stood. You watched, dazed, as he made his way to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, and you heard vomiting. Your stomach lurched at the sound, but you managed to keep your own dinner down. When he emerged, he leaned against the door, grinning wildly at you once again. “Still wanna fuck?” he asked.

“Actually, I – I’m going to go to bed,” you responded. And as you ascended the stairs to the master bedroom (you figured neither Beth nor Jerry would mind) you heard Rick laughing: “Holy sh-shit, this is gonna be fun.”


	3. Screaming into the Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else look at a picture of Rick and realize that they’re writing smut about a cartoon man? :| Something about it feels wrong, but hey man, I’m all about making wrong things right. HAHAHA HIGH FIVE TO ME AND MY DEPRAVITY. EVERYONE GETS TO FUCK THE CARTOON MAN WHEE

You woke up at six in the morning and found that the rest of the house was still asleep. Rick had managed to vacate the living room sometime last night, which you were grateful for. You thought that he’d pass out on the couch again. You took the quiet morning to get some work done, quietly listening to a playlist you’d put together on Spotify to inspire creativity as you wrote. Relief washed over you when you realized that the words flowed naturally from you this time. You knew you’d have to go back and edit it later, might even erase the entire draft and start over, but at least you’d gotten something down. You worked for an hour, having already outlined multiple characters and come up with a basic plot when you heard the first pair of footsteps descend the stairs. You looked up from over your laptop and saw Morty stumbling down the stairs groggily, yawning and stretching.

You frowned. “Your shirt’s on backwards, Morty,” you said. He looked down with bloodshot eyes, and sighed.

“W-Who cares?” he asked rhetorically. You set the laptop aside and stood up. “What’s for breakfast?” You hadn’t made it yet, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you approached the boy and held the back of your hand against his forehead. “I-I feel fine,” he said, though the sudden worry on his face was evident.

“Exhaustion can cause a low-grade fever,” you explained. “And you do feel warm, Morty. Maybe you should stay home today?”

“N-No!” He twiddled with his thumbs in front of his chest. “I-I mean, I’d like to go to school. I’m not sick or anything, you know?” He hung his head and looked up at you through his lashes. You smiled back down at him.

“If you’re sure, I’ll whip up some eggs and toast.” He relaxed his shoulders and followed you into the kitchen. Morty sat down at the table as he watched you cook. “How do you like them done?” you asked him, breaking open eggs.

“Everyone usually just goes scrambled,” Morty replied, and you set to work. A long silence passed between you before he spoke up again. “Did, uh – did R-Rick give you any trouble? Last night?” You felt a coldness grip your shoulders as they tensed up, and you remembered the conversation from the night before. You wanted to blame Rick’s behavior on the drugs; if he’d thrown up because of them, he probably hadn’t completely slept off the effects. But you knew better. You’d seen enough of him through your window to know that Rick Sanchez was unpredictable. Insane. Said and did whatever he wanted to at the time.

Chaotic neutral, as you would have said back in your teenage years, when you still operated as the Dungeon Master for your school’s DnD group.

“No,” you lied. “He woke up, ate, and pretty much passed right out again.” You glanced over your shoulder at Morty, saw him looking at you like he didn’t believe a word you said, but he didn’t try to dispute your claims. For that, you were grateful. You really didn’t need to be telling Rick’s grandson that he’d spent a good five minutes being …

Well, the only term that came to mind was _emotionally sadistic_. Emotionally sadistic, and aware of the effect it had on you. A strange sort of kink not even you realized that you had. Rick had figured it out before you did, and he preyed on it with ease. Like he took delight in knowing who he was, and knowing who you were, and knowing that chaos existed at every turn wherever the two met. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy knowing that something bubbled underneath the surface of the budding acquaintanceship, but you doubted it was like what he felt. He just seemed to get a kick out of making you feel uncomfortable. You, on the other hand, responded to it with a more sexual desire. A well-inhibited one, but it existed nonetheless.

At least you were good at not acting on it. Your years in high school had been spent with the social outcasts, the nerds, the ones that had a history of being bullied. Sure, you had your crushes on the popular kids – the ones that generally ignored you unless it was to ask for help on their assignments – but because it wasn’t mutual, you ignored it.

Last night, you’d come dangerously close to acting on your interest, but only because Rick seemed to take it, manipulate it in his capable mind, and turn it around on you like he was a master at every single game he played. The way he spoke to you, it was like he wanted one of two things from you: Malleable willingness to bend to his every desire, or a strong-willed defiance that allowed him a chance to force your new creation.

You could guess at Rick’s fetishes just as much as he knew about yours, so you decided not to dwell too much on it. You wouldn’t get any answers any time soon. He was an enigma, and he was going to stay that way.

You knew it wouldn’t stop you from trying to figure him out. Last night had been more than just greed and desire for you; it had been the realization that Rick’s ramblings, while seemingly benign, were a symptom of his motivations. He screamed into the void: _Nothing matters, so why?_

You served Morty breakfast just as Summer came down, so you fixed her up a plate, as well. “Grandpa Rick still asleep?” she asked, settling down into a chair.

“He wasn’t feeling well last night,” you said.

Morty frowned around his fork. “I thought you said h-he …?” His voice trailed off, and your face heated up at being caught in your lie. You knew he didn’t believe you in the first place, but damn – why did he have to put you on blast like that?

“Well, sorry – I didn’t want to talk about him puking his brains out while you’re about to eat your food.”

Summer snorted as she took a bite of toast. “We’re used to worse,” she said, scrolling through her Twitter feed on her phone. “Oh, by the way, I’m staying at a friend’s tonight, so.”

“It’s a school night,” you reminded Summer. She rolled her eyes.

“Oh my God, what are you, my mother?”

“Well, no, but –”

Summer interrupted you. “Speaking of.” She stood and moved toward the counter, where a pen and notepad lie. She clicked the pen, and wrote. “This is Mom’s number. You should text her, let her know you’re here. If you want. I don’t really care. Later.”

“Wait.” You watched as Summer grabbed her toast, ignored the rest of the food as she headed toward the door. “You’re done eating?”

“I’m on a diet,” Summer said, and bewildered, you watched her leave. Summer? On a diet? You frowned in thought, concerned. Probably more than you ought to be, and definitely more than she wanted you to be. High school was rough enough without worrying about weight. But instead of speaking, you walked over to her plate and offered the untouched eggs to Morty, who eagerly accepted them. Growing boys and their love for food.

Rick emerged from the garage then, hooded eyes shifting to you piling extra food on Morty’s plate. “G-Getting nice and fat for Jessica?” he asked. Morty glared down at his food, poked it with his fork, but didn’t take another bite. “L-like –” Rick laughed at his incomplete joke, and pointed at Morty “like a fat pig, ready for the spitroast.”

“Seriously, Rick?” Morty tossed his silverware down and stood up. Rick laughed harder.

“I can – y-you want me to c-clone her? Get – get both of them some strap-ons so they can – they can spitroast your bitch ass real – real good, M-Morty.”

“Fuck you, Rick. I’m going to school.”

Rick frowned at his grandson’s retreating form, clearly offended that Morty didn’t think his joke was funny. You folded your arms across your chest, deciding not to speak just yet. “H-Hey, I called her a chubby chaser. That’s just as much an insult toward her as it is you!” He shouted after Morty as the teen slammed the front door, then groaned and turned to face you, expecting you to validate his shitty sense of humor. You just quirked a brow at him.

Huffing in irritation, Rick gave up and made his way to the fridge to grab a beer. He pressed the edge of the cap against the counter, popped it off, and sat down to help himself to Morty’s breakfast. Instead of chastising him – he knew what he did wrong – you asked, “Feeling better?”

“B-baby, I’m always operating on – at one hundred percent fue – beast fuel. I’m a f – a motherfucking _monster_.” Where Summer and Morty failed, Rick succeeded. He ate the entire plate of food, like he had a bottomless stomach that didn’t match his slender frame. How he’d consumed so many empty calories in alcohol without gaining a beer gut, you had no idea. One of the lucky ones, you figured.

When he was finished eating, you picked up his plate and washed it in the sink. Rick spoke to you: “Got some errands to ru **aaaauuuughh** – holy _shit_ that hurt – got some errands to run today.” You looked back over at him, watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed when he drank from his beer. “Interested?” he asked, nonchalant, like he was asking if you wanted to tag along to the grocery store. You bit your lip.

“You mean like …?” He didn’t respond. Just waited for you to give him a yes or no answer, but you couldn’t. You didn’t understand. “I thought you didn’t want to.”

“Did I say that?” he asked rhetorically, but you shook your head anyway. “No, I didn’t. S-So, you get your shit together and get ready to go or I’m leaving you here. You got – you got five minutes.”

“What do I need?” you asked, and Rick shrugged. Helpful.

As you made your way to the stairs, your heart pounding, you heard him call after you. “That – **ergh** – that bla – black dress you got.” You stopped at the stairs, turned to look at the arched entryway to the kitchen. The wall blocked your view of him. “Bring that. Wear it.”

You considered the long list of black dresses that you owned, and narrowed it down to the ones Rick had seen you in. The only one you could imagine is the dress you wore for dinner when you first met him two weeks ago. It was in your house, so you’d have to run to get it. “Why?” you called out to him.

He belched. “B-Because I fucking told you to,” he said, and you realized that this logic might become a theme with him. You knew it’d take you the full five minutes to go to your house and get changed, so you debated a moment whether you should grab the stuff you wanted to bring along just in case you had to make an extended stay, or if you should just listen to him. With a resigned sigh, you settled on the latter.

By the time you came back, Rick was standing behind the couch, gun in hand. You identified it as the gun he used to create those portals. He eyed you carefully, drinking in every detail of your appearance. You skillfully pretended like it didn’t affect you. “Where are we going?” you finally asked, breathless after your rush to get dressed so quickly. He shot a portal at the wall, and stepped inside without answering your question.

You swallowed your trepidation and followed him.

It felt heavy, like you were being painlessly pulled in every direction, and simultaneously collapsing in on yourself. When you emerged on the other side, you felt a temporary tingling in your sinuses. Your ears popped once. Your high heels connected with hard concrete. Rick stood in front of you, placing his portal gun back in one of the many inner pockets of his lab coat. “Where are we?” you asked, scanning your surroundings, and then it hit you.

You stood in the center of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by houses belonging to well-to-do families. Christmas lights still decorated one house’s privacy fence. Behind another, a dog barked at your sudden intrusion. Your eyes landed on one house – dark, abandoned, with a For Sale sign in front. Your heart sank as Rick reached into his pocket to pull out his flask. “What the fuck, Rick?” He swallowed, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat, and glanced at you over his shoulder.

“That’s – **eugh** , fuck this shit is killing me – that’s the most aggression I’ve heard from you so far.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Rick turned around to face you, expression neutral as he spread his arms out and walked backwards.

“You’ve been watching me for two weeks, ba-babe. You really gonna play hypocrite and say I can’t do my own research?” Your feet didn’t allow you to follow him, so you stayed rooted firmly in place. Rick stopped walking, frowning at you, everything about him wordlessly demanding an explanation.

“If you already did your research, how the hell is this your errand? Did you just bring me here to be a dick?”

A predatory smile spread across his face, and he shrugged before turning and walking toward the abandoned home – the home you grew up in. Huffing in irritation, angry at the invasion of privacy, you refused to follow him. You just watched as he retrieved a device from his pocket and stuck it in the door’s keyhole. He twisted the doorknob and let himself in, leaving the door open in case you decided to join him.

Against your better judgment, you did.

The house’s emptiness struck you right in your core, bubbling up until you felt like you could burst any moment. The entrance hall stretched out to an open floor plan, living room by the stairs and a kitchen on the other end of the room. A sliding glass door led out to a well-groomed backyard, large enough for two dogs that you’d once owned. Even your mother’s sunflower curtains had been removed. No personal touch remained outside of your own memories, ones that you’d tried too hard to repress. You wrapped your arms around yourself, glanced up the stairs, remembered your bedroom and its attached bathroom. Rick let out a low whistle. “Someone grew up privileged.”

“Like you didn’t know,” you spat, angry. He belched in response, began making his way upstairs. You wanted to beg him not to, but you knew it wouldn’t work, so you followed on shaking knees. Instead of going to your old room, he made his way to the master bedroom, opened the door as you seized up.

Like everything else, it was empty. No sign of life, but you knew better than to expect it. Still, you wished it was different. Wished you could see your father’s smiling face, could hear your mother welcoming you home. Like she wasn’t in the psychiatric hospital, like he hadn’t been cremated three years ago. Rick belched again. “Y-You know, I knew you were fucked the moment I met you,” he said, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your chest felt tight with emotion, and your head heavy with confusion. He leaned against the doorframe, staring into your parents’ empty bedroom. “See, you dodged questions like a fucking pro. All my shit-eating son-in-law wanted to know was where you came from. Guess – guess people with trauma don’t like talking about it.”

“It’s not like I was molested as a kid or anything,” you said, biting back tears. “I wasn’t traumatized, Rick.”

“Hey, kid, I get it. My dad’s dead too. Deader than yours, if you wanna make a competition out of it.” You didn’t. Either way, you realized that this wasn’t Rick’s attempt at relating to you, or comforting you. Dads die. It happened to everyone, and you were aware that your situation wasn’t special. That wasn’t what Rick was trying to tell you. He wanted you to know that you were beyond repair. If he’d done his research on you like he said, he was well aware that your problems started long before your father’s passing, so why he decided to bring this particular issue up, you didn’t know.

At least, you didn’t until he explained it: “Explains why you want to fuck me so bad.”

You glared at the back of his head. “Excuse me?”

“Bitch, don’t lie.” He finally turned to face you, drank in the anger on your face like it was the finest liquor. “Daddy left you with abandonment issues and you want to act like it – like it’s just no thing.” He eyed you up and down, and if you weren’t so angry at him, you would have cowered under his gaze. “Y-you think – you think I don’t know why you really came over yesterday?” You opened your mouth to speak, but you were so outraged you didn’t know where to begin. He cut you off anyway. “You could have written your little book without my – without me. Nah, nuh-uh sweetheart, not buying i – not buying that shit for a minute.”

Suddenly, the rage disappeared, replaced by a deep, overwhelming sense of shame that came with being caught. Exactly how much he knew, you had no clue. Summer had accused you of stalking Rick – a claim you found baseless, outrageous, but was it a common topic of conversation in the Smith household? The idea terrified you. He approached, long legs moving in a slow stride even after your back pressed against the wall. You choked on a breath, on your apology, as one of his hands pressed against the wall behind you and the other gripped your shoulder, keeping you from running. “You – you came at me because you couldn’t stand yourself unless I was right there in front of you.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, eyes narrowed at you. “That’s _fuuuuuuucked_ , baby. You – you spoke to me once, just met me, decided I was going to play your little projected role of replacement.”

“You’re scaring me,” you said, flinching back against the wall as he laughed.

“ _I’m_ scaring _you_? Sweetheart, you’re the one – your crazy ass has been obsessed with me the moment you met me, and _I’m_ the scary one.” He grinned wickedly down at you, shrugged one shoulder. “But you’re not wrong.” He watched as you shuddered against the wall, against his grip, hands gripping at the hem of your dress in an attempt to ground yourself. You felt naked, exposed. Did he ask you to dress like this because it made you more vulnerable to his gaze? He inhaled deeply through his nose, sighed as he canted his head, shook it in mock disappointment, before leaning forward and pressing his forehead against yours. You stared into his eyes, frozen in fear, and he closed them, slowly, like he was relishing this moment, grabbing at every bit of it. “Fuck,” he chuckled, “I’m hard.”

Even though he’d spoken slowly, the admission made you jolt in shock. You jerked to get away from him, but he held you firmly in place. “R-Relax, baby. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a rapist.” His eyes opened. “But I can – I can play the role if you want me to.”

“No!” It came out suddenly, louder than you expected, and he flexed his fingers against your shoulder.

“All right,” he said. “Just _Daddy_ then.”

“Fuc – _no_!” This time he laughed, like you’d just told him a joke. At least he drew back from you, letting go of your shoulder. He rubbed at his stomach, like his laughter had made him sore, and made his way toward the stairs. You stared after him, terrified and bewildered. As Rick descended the steps, you came to a horrifying realization.

Once the cold fear faded, you understood that his unpredictability threatened only your mental safety – not your physical well-being. Your mind replayed everything that he’d said, in flashes and fractions like it was having trouble piecing the entire puzzle together, and you sighed shakily. Your entire body pulsed. As you walked, you felt the tell-tale wetness between your thighs, and felt tears threaten to spring to your eyes in shame. Your eyes flickered back toward what had once been your parents’ bedroom, and the unsettling feeling in your stomach only grew.

So did your arousal.

Conflicting interests, disgusting and taunting. Rick had spotted it before you did. You hated yourself for it. And you hated yourself even more that you were already so willing to forgive him for it. Mentally chastising yourself – what the _fuck_ had you gotten yourself into – you rounded the corner and found him at the foot of the stairs. “Rick?” you called after him. He turned with both hands in his pockets, looked up at you, that neutral expression back. “Is it … Normal?” He quirked a brow, waited for you to elaborate, but you could see the amusement playing faintly at his lips. Whatever game he’d been playing with you, he just won. “I mean, are some people just born messed up?”

“You’re not important enough for that,” he said, and at first, his response confused you. But as he stared at you, waiting for you to get it, you came to understand. Your mind flashed back to the night before, when he called you a blip, said nothing mattered. That included you, and everything you came with. The universe was too large – and there were too many of them – for anything to hold any weight. Even Rick, who had the technology to dominate everything that existed within the universe, would eventually expire when its laws dictated that he would. He would die with everything else.

So did it really matter? Who you were? _What_ you were?

You wrapped your arms around yourself, avoiding his gaze. “Is it all like this?” you asked. “Once you see everything, is this all it’s like?” Fucked up, you meant to add. Like you knew you would encounter deeply disturbing things about yourself and couldn’t reconcile them because none of it mattered in the long run. The bleak depression of realizing that you might as well not have been born, a battle you’d fought with your entire life due to depression, a battle that had just been lost. _You might as well not even be alive,_ it screamed at you. You swallowed it back down, tried to ignore it.

Silence. And then: “P-pretty much.” He withdrew his portal gun. Drew up a portal before him, and his shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as he stepped through it. Afraid of being left alone in your childhood home, you quickly ran down the stairs and followed him – only to find yourself in a new world entirely. Flashing lights and laughter came at you from every angle. A food court sat at your right, long lines already formed as patrons waited to get their orders in. Not a single table went unoccupied. You turned, stared at the arcade machines placed carefully across the establishment. Rick wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulled you toward him – not flirtatiously, though his earlier confession regarding his erection came back to you. You glanced down to find that yes, he was still sporting a hardon. Your eyes followed his free hand as he moved it across the air, fingers spread in a grand gesture of presentation. “Blips and Chitz,” he said, grinning down at you.

And suddenly, the revelation that even someplace as colorful as this didn’t matter seemed a lot less unbearable. You smiled weakly up at him, and he disengaged – moved toward the bar that looked surprisingly unoccupied compared to the food court. You watched him, mind reeling, trying to piece together your thoughts.

You realized that you’d gotten something incorrect about Rick. This entire time, he’d actually been screaming into the void: _Nothing matters, so why the fuck not?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BITCH DON'T LIE


	4. All Under Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOOOORD SHOW ME HOW TO SAY NO TO THIS IIII DONT KNOW HOW TO SAY NO TO THIS  
> BUT MY GOD SHE LOOKS SO HELPLESS  
> AND IT'S PORN ABOUT RICK SANCHEZ (WHOAOAOAOAOAOA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I can't write smut hahahaha who was I trying to fool this is a mess. ENJOY MY MESS.
> 
> Also apparently I keep finding mistakes even though I proofread. (Yes I proofread I know this is a mess but that doesn't mean I didn't try. It just means I failed.)

Rick was becoming less _mystery_ and more _misery_ each moment you spent with him. Last night, he’d torn you apart, scrutinized every vulnerable detail. He’d picked up the raw pieces of you, rattled them against existence (and the lack of it) and demanded your rebirth, conforming to _his_ standards, _his_ expectations, _his_ will. You would have been stupid if you thought he didn’t realize he was doing it. Everything about Rick was a calculation. Every movement, every word, every creation – he was aware of its impact, and that it had none. Was aware that meant he could _make it have whatever impact he wanted_. And as far as creations went, it seemed you were his new fixation.

Rick could read people because he was a genius. You? You could do it because you knew how to paint lifelike portraits with words. Transfer any psyche onto the page, twist it until it felt real. And Rick was no exception. While it had taken a bit longer for you to realize what kind of a man Rick was, you still had a decent enough summary to know that whatever Rick was playing at, you wouldn’t win. You weren’t even sure you could get out at this point – because you didn’t want to, maybe because he wouldn’t _let_ you. You’d watched Rick long enough to know that things rarely ever kept his attention. He’d throw projects away before they were even finished if they began to bore him. Walked away in the middle of conversations if they failed to keep his interest.

But there was the rare time, when you’d watch from your living room window, that Rick would sit up late at night in his garage, working on something he’d been going at all night, day, week – perfecting it over and over again because each final result yielded new possibilities to him. He liked the way it unraveled. The way he looked at you, he must have liked the way he unraveled you, too. And he certainly had, when he had loomed over you in your family home, stretched the truth out big and ugly in your face until you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You were a horrible person. Horrible, disgusting, corrupt – and Rick had given you permission to be that, to be okay with it. Because nothing mattered – the ugly or the beautiful. The contrast between him beating you down in your family home and him building you up again in Blips and Chitz felt like being cut in half and sewn together again in his capable hands – remolded, shaped to fit whatever he wanted. The seeds of his fruit planted, blossoming quickly and wrapping their vines around every corner of you.

So when Rick brought you back to his home from Blips and Chitz – long after Morty had already gone to bed – you waited until he disappeared into the garage before you gathered up your things. Different parts of you begged different outcomes. Half of your heart screamed at you to run, that you were more than what he said you were. Half of your brain insisted that even if you did go back home when he wasn’t paying attention, he could drag you back in if he wanted. The other half of your brain knew how easily bored Rick became, and that he might not want to drag you back after all. And the other half of your heart hoped he would.

Confliction tearing you down, you listened to the only common theme: Get out of here and go home. Whatever happened then, you would deal with. All you knew was that whatever was happening here, it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t healthy. Whether you wanted to deny the monster Rick insisted you were or not, you still had yet to figure out. There was no denying that there was a certain appeal to throwing every last barrier to the wind and living on every fucked up desire you’d had since adolescence, but if you lost that – if you lost your sense of self, of direction, or morality – then who were you really? Rick may be the smartest man you’ve ever known, but there was a gap in his knowledge. People were more than just chemicals. They had evolved into society, which had shaped them beyond his scope of scientific understanding. They had laws and ethics and abided by such rules on a regular basis because they meant something. Just because Rick handed you the opportunity to abandon all that and live something different didn’t mean that you had to do it.

_But did you want to?_

* * *

You couldn’t sleep. You didn’t feel safe in your own home. You’d like to say that you hadn’t felt that way since your father’s death, but Rick’s influence pounded at your brain from every angle. You had always been a danger to yourself. You’d just been so good at hiding it that you’d become numb to it. Now that you were exposed, there was no running. (Why did you think you could run? Worthless. Stupid. Pointless.) You stayed in bed, trying to distract yourself with a true crime series on television, but each episode made your heart sink deeper. Rick had planted some serious seeds of doubt in you, and they grew until they felt like they were going to burst. How far did your darkness reach? Were you like them? A social disaster waiting to happen? Were you destined to hurt someone? The more you watched, the more holes you could find in their plans. They didn’t clean up the evidence well enough. They left behind loose ends. Didn’t take care of witnesses. Did Rick know how to clean up a crime scene?

Did he ever plan on teaching you? And would you be a susceptible student?

Your heart lurched into your throat when the familiar green portal appeared right before the foot of your bed. It closed behind him, his glowering face blocking your view of the TV. Wordlessly, you lifted the remote and turned it off. The half of your heart that had wanted him to chase after you leapt in joy, and you found yourself disgusted with how much you agreed with it.

At least now you knew. You had so much to think about still, so many parts of yourself that you needed to redefine, but at least now you knew.

His chest heaved in poorly-contained anger. Your stomach did flips. You felt like you’d betrayed him. Was that a part of his game? Or was that just a part of who you always were? “I’m sorry,” you said, setting the remote down next to your lap. He didn’t seem phased by the apology. “I have a lot on my mind, and I can’t think around you.” His hand flexed next to one of his pockets. Did he have a gun? Was he going to hurt you? You swallowed. “Rick, I’m _sorry_.”

“You fu – what makes you think that y-you c-can just – just up and _leave_ like you –” While he normally didn’t speak with much clarity, he was having much more difficulty articulating his thoughts now. Before you could speak again, he leapt onto the bed and reached out a hand, wrapping it around your neck and pushing until your back hit the mattress. He loomed over you, sneering as you choked for air through his grip. Instinctively, you clawed at his hand. Your mind flashed back to your earlier thoughts: _Did he know how to clean up a crime scene?_ Before you could run away with that train of thought, he released you, but still kneeled above you. “I’m not – I’m _not_ gonna deal with that shit again.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped out, rubbing at your aching throat. He glared down at you from over his nose. “I won’t do it again, Rick, I promise.”

He continued on, like he hadn’t heard you. “Not goin’ – not goin’ down as the fuckup who can’t keep –” He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, Rick leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your chest as he took in a few deep breaths. When he spoke again, you felt his voice rumbling through you: “You leave again, and I’ll kill you.”

Your initial reaction was shock. Fear. Repulsion. He’d threatened you, and you knew that he was capable of fulfilling that promise. He lifted his head, looked up at you like he dared you to challenge him. You didn’t. You knew what he could do. So you stared back, slack-jawed and stunned. Your body betrayed you: You laughed. His eyes narrowed at you. “You call _me_ the crazy one for watching you, then think it’s perfectly acceptable to threaten my life because you can’t handle abandonment from someone who – and remember, _you_ were the one who kept bringing this up – you had just met?” You shook your head. “What the fuck, Rick? What the fuck? What the _fuck_?” You repeated your mantra as he climbed up your body until his eyes were level with yours. Your voice tapered into a whisper.

He spoke over you: “I never denied what I am, sweetheart.” You went still and silent underneath Rick, and in a complete emotional reversal, he looked at you almost _lovingly_ when he reached a hand up to stroke your cheek. You flinched away, pushed him off of you and sat up. And even though your brain kept demanding that you leave, _run_ , your body stalled when you saw the way he kept looking at you, like you were some new revelation that the world wasn’t ready to see yet. Like he knew that he had flooded you over, and he wanted to be there to drown when your dams broke. “That’s why – it’s why you need me. Because I – I got that key for you, baby. I got everything you n-need.”

“I’m not beyond repair, Rick,” you countered. The corner of his lips twitched. He’d expected you to say that.

“Can’t fix what works as intended,” he said. “Baby, y-you wanted me to change your life the moment you met me. I was your b-big ticket, remember? The novel, the novelty – y-you know I can do it. You’re just too damn scared to admit that’s why you want me.” Because it was _terrifying_. You had every right to be scared. Yes, you wanted Rick to change your life, but you would have never asked him to do it like this. You would have never asked him to prey on the deeply-repressed parts of you. He might like them, but they didn’t sit well with you. They scared you. The most terrifying part was how much you enjoyed the fear, how much you liked how he opened you up like this. “You already know the deal, baby. It’s – nothing means _anything_. You’re g-gonna die. The only choice you – you have is whether life shits on you, or you’re the one popping a squat instead.”

You huffed. “If this is your idea of talking dirty, you’re going to have to stop mentioning poop.”

Rick grinned, leaned closer again. “So shit isn’t your thing,” he said, “but me being a _baaaaad_ influence is?” You tried to control your breathing. “You like – you like being scared of me, baby?” You’d learned not to question his unpredictability – how he could be angry one second, threatening you with death, and then the next trying to slide his way between your thighs. Reluctantly, you nodded. “F-fuck, don’t blame you. I like – I like being scared of me too.” He chuckled. “And you.”

“Seriously?” your eyes narrowed at him. “You don’t strike me as the type to be afraid of anything, let alone a girl who lives by herself. What could I have _possibly_ done to you, Rick?”

Rick’s grin widened. “What d-do you _want_ to do to me?” he asked. “Cut of my skin and wear – make a skin suit to wear?” You wrinkled your nose. He shrugged. “I could get into it.”

Again, you said: “What the _fuck_?” As he grinned at you, you began to realize what would easily become your newest problem: Conversations like these shouldn’t be normal. But somehow, Rick made them seem so effortless. Not two minutes ago, he was choking the life out of you, and now? He was joking about you wearing his skin. Like it was _nothing_. And it felt so … easy. Just a private conversation between two people who didn’t need validation to exist.

Rick must have noticed the epiphany, because he drew in a deep breath and snaked an arm around your waist. “Theeeeeere we go,” he said, guiding you into his lap. With one hand around you, he used his other to prop himself up at the elbow. “I-It puts the lotion on the sk-skin or –”

“I’m _not_ into that, Rick,” you said firmly, and he shrugged.

“Worth a shot. Come on.” He lowered his hand to your hip, gripped tightly. “You’re s-so _close_ , baby. Just gotta – just gotta let go.” Your heart thudded in your chest, and you sighed. You still weren’t entirely convinced, but despite his lack of eloquence, Rick had a different kind of silver tongue that came from confidence alone. He knew who you were, _what_ you were. And something about that felt as easy as his mood swings, as his macabre jokes, as the way he pulled you apart and put you back together again. You tested the waters, rolled your hips against his once. Rick’s eyes slid closed, and his grin turned satisfied as his head rolled back. You hadn’t done much – just began what he wanted you to do – so you knew that the pleasure he felt wasn’t entirely physical.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t send a jolt of satisfaction through you, knowing that you’d found some leverage to use against him. Was this how he felt when he manipulated you so expertly? Did it make him feel like he was in control? He looked up at you again, eyes wild and pupils blown. Excitement, not just for where he sat, but for where he would go. You realized that he wouldn’t let you see anything that he didn’t _want_ you to see. If he came across as possible to control in _any_ facet of his life, that’s because he wanted you to do it. He wanted you to use him just as much as he was using you.

Your breath hitched at the thought. You could feel him get harder underneath you, and he ground his hips up against yours. “F-fuck, baby – you – you wet from this?” He watched you. Less hesitant than before, you nodded. “Yeah. _Yeah_ , that’s – that’s fucked up. I could have _killed_ you.” He laughed breathlessly as your eyes threatened to close. “Maybe – maybe n-next time I’ll – I’ll bring a gun, huh? Put it riiiiight up against that p-pretty head and –” His voice trailed off, just in time to hear the tail end of your moan. “Th-that’s it, baby, just – just let it all go, r-right? I got no limi – I can do _whatever_ you need me to do to g-get that f-freak flag f-flying, baby. Want – you want me to dress up like a Russian prostitute?”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, and Rick’s smile suggested that he’d wanted you to see it as funny. As good. As _cute_. You knew what he was doing. You knew that he was rewiring the part of you that felt ashamed, that saw this as inappropriate. You knew that he’d introduced you to how horrible you were so that you could see it at face value – and even then, at your family home, he’d already decided that he was going to convince you that it was something you could _laugh_ about. Have a good time with. Because in the end, why the fuck did it matter, right? Nothing else did. And even though you knew all this, you couldn’t stop yourself from falling victim to his antics. You didn’t _want_ to stop yourself. As Rick’s hand slid off your hip and between your bodies, you realized that all you wanted right now was to just let go.

He rubbed at your clit through your clothes, drank in the sound of your moans. Rick slid his hand underneath the fabric, worked at you without any barriers – pressed two fingers inside you and let you ride his fingers. It didn’t take him long to accomplish this, did it? To reach his goal, to make you submit to his game? Maybe you were already at the edge when you’d met him. All he needed to do was push you off. Whatever part of you had been reserved enough to deny yourself whatever you wanted – it lingered like an afterthought, reminding you of how disgusting this was, how none of it was normal. And your heart soared at how disobedient to morality you were being.

Your hands gripped at Rick’s coat. You tugged him forward, and he kissed you. He was messy, desperate, smelled like alcohol. When you clenched around his fingers, he moaned into your mouth. Just as your thighs were starting to scream at you, he pulled his fingers out of you. Part of you already missed the loss, but you knew it meant things were progressing. You watched in greedy hunger as he slid out from underneath you, sitting up on his knees. He saw you staring, grinned as your eyes trailed down his body. Rick’s fingers worked on the button and zipper of his trousers, and just when you _didn’t_ want to divide your attention, he forced it anyway: “L-lab coat on or off?”

“What?” Your eyes darted back up to his face. You registered what he’d just asked you, and you looked back down at the coat he wore. That was a strange question. Did people – wait. “Is there such a thing as a _scientist fetish_?” you asked. Rick laughed.

“Somewhere,” he answered as he freed his cock from his trousers. It hung, thick and heavy, and your breath caught. How in the _hell_ was that supposed to fit? Sure, you knew it _could_ , but holy shit, that looked painful. It sent a chill down your spine. Excitement, fear, arousal. Rick noticed, stroked his length slowly while you watched. “B-but there _is_ a Rick motherfucking Sanchez fetish, and if this coat isn’t quintessential Rick then I don’t know wha **aaaauuugh** t is. So, on or off?”

“Fair enough,” you breathed, letting Rick help you out of your clothes. With one final look at his coat, you decided, “I mean, let’s go for it. Keep it on.” If he was going to take you for a ride, might as well get the most mileage out of it, right? 

Rick chuckled once, praised you for making a decision so much quicker than you usually do, and eased you onto your back. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, and your breasts before he began sliding into you. You were right; it wasn’t an easy fit by any means. Rick was huge (he moaned into your neck, “F-fuck, baby, so _tight_ ”) and the invasion was painful. And while part of you liked how it felt like he was tearing you open, you still grabbed onto the back of his coat to brace yourself against the slow push into you. Rick panted into your ear, swearing at the effort of going slow, of letting you adjust. You figured he wasn’t used to this; he liked taking whatever he wanted outright, comfort be damned.

But something about you made him careful. You were a project. He wanted to see you to completion, and that meant patience. Just because you’d given in so quickly didn’t mean that it was over. He still had _so much work to do_ , and you gasped as he filled you entirely. Rick moved slowly, grinding against you as the coarse material of his coat scratched your skin. He was right; it _was_ quintessential Rick. How the fuck was that so hot?

Did you have a lab coat fetish now?

“You really need to stop making me question who I am,” you panted, and Rick laughed. “I can’t keep up with it.”

“N-not as vanilla as you thought?” You shook your head. He laughed again, but when he continued speaking, his voice lacked humor. “Daddy raised such a fucking _slut_.” A cold chill went down your spine, and your fingers tightened on Rick’s coat. Your eyes flew open, your breath caught, your body went cold then hot. That voice in the back of your head came to the front again: _Not normal. Fucked up. Make him stop._ You swallowed it back down, guilty at how good it felt to ignore it, to come undone over whatever disgusting game Rick wanted to play. “Wonder – I bet he didn’t even know. Think – you think he’d be p-pissed, seeing – if he knew you were f-fucking an old man?”

You breathed into his neck, “That’s so fucked up, Rick.” He moaned, acknowledging.

“Then stop me,” he challenged, and you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. “Th-that’s right, baby – because every b-bit of devastation in your life is – it’s all mine now. Stop acting – pretending like you h-hate it and just admit that you –” he paused to moan as your walls clenched around him “—you want me to ruin you.”

“Harder,” you pleaded, voice shaking. Rick’s hips snapped forward. He pushed against your walls, angling his hips until he hit the spot inside you that made you squirm. Your grip on his coat tightened as you threw your head back and moaned. He kissed and bit along the length of your exposed neck. You sighed in approval. “ _Yessssss, Daddy_.” It hadn’t been an accident, and the guilt of letting it happen only further aroused you. Rick liked it, too, if the way he thrust into you was any indication; he must have known exactly how dirty it made you feel. He swore loudly into your throat.

“That’s right, bitch – I’m y-your – you call _me_ Daddy now.” You had to keep your eyes closed. Between his voice and the way he _felt_ , it was beginning to become sensory overload. “Y-you know what that m-makes you, baby?”

Without missing a beat, you whined, “Your slut. _Daddy’s_ slut.”

“F- _fuuuuuck_ , such a good girl.” Rick slammed into you as he lowered his hand and circled his thumb around your clit. If that was the reward you were going to get, you had no problem saying whatever he wanted to hear. So you kept going, praising Rick for whatever you could think of. You told him how much you loved how he felt inside you – how much you appreciated what he did to you – begged for more, thanked him when he gave it. Rick ate it up, so starved for what you could give him that he would do anything to keep the praise coming.

It should terrify you, that this was the most sexual compatibility that you’ve ever experienced. You knew right off the bat what he needed – and though you’d taken some coaxing, he knew the same about you. You felt guilty, ashamed, disgusted.

 _Excited_.

The muscles in your stomach clenched, and your thighs tightened around Rick’s narrow hips. “ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna cum, Daddy,” you said. Rick moaned like he would never get tired of hearing you say it. He coaxed you through it, whispered into your ear (“That’s right, baby, cum on Daddy’s dick. Such a _good girl_ for me.”) until your entire body tightened around him. You screamed his name, chanting it like a mantra as he kept slamming into you. Blood rushed into your ears. When it cleared, you could hear him.

“… fill you up, baby girl – deep inside you for being s-such a g-good little sl – _fuck, fuck, shit, yes_ –!” He bit down into your shoulder. You moaned in encouragement, felt the telltale warmth as Rick came inside you. Rick ground his hips desperately against yours to ride out his orgasm. He held on tightly, like he was afraid to let go, licked a long stripe up your neck and kissed you until you moaned into his mouth.

He was kind enough to roll off of you before he collapsed. You felt his cum slowly begin to leak out of you, and you knew that if you got up, you’d have a hell of a mess to clean. So you were content with lying in bed, the post-orgasmic bliss keeping you from freaking out about what you’d just done. Rick – apparently not one for cuddling after sex – draped a long arm over his eyes to block out the light and breathed heavily. You glanced down at his trousers. You weren’t the only one who had to clean up. Maybe it would have been smarter for him to take his clothes off, first? “Better’n’a giraffe,” he mumbled, and you wondered if you’d heard him right. He was tired, slurring, so you figured not. Maybe he was already sleeping? You couldn’t blame him. You were exhausted, yourself.

“Gonna – gonna take you so many places, baby – so many a-adventures out there wai – waiting for us. I-I mean, M-Morty always takes priority, you know? But – but, uh, you’n’me, we got – we got _places to go_.” No, he was definitely awake. You figured asking about the giraffe wouldn’t be a good idea, so you didn’t say anything. Just closed your eyes. You could feel yourself drifting off as he spoke: “—can make it so much dirtier, baby. J-just gotta – just have to g-get ready for it first. Don’t worry. D-Daddy’s got it all under control.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If that was the reward you were going to get, you had no problem saying whatever he wanted to hear. "IT PUTS THE LOTION ON THE SKIN OR IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN!" Rick came hard and fast, screaming "YES DADDY STICK A HOSE UP MY ASSHOLE"
> 
> I have to use humor to hide how ashamed of myself I am for writing this.


End file.
